


Favors

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 5: The random bits and pieces [5]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Ancient History, Being immortal can give you some very bad years, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Double quickening aftereffects, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinan ibn Salman guaranteed a millennium's luck by torturing an immortal before; he wants to repeat his success. (Yes, A Deadly Virtue has the same opening; no, they aren't the same story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favors

**Author's Note:**

> Rated: Explicit for sex, implied and explicit, both consensual and non-, and for implied violence and torture. If any of these are triggers for you, I recommend you use the back button.

Peace ruled in the dojo after seven-thirty or so. 

The hard-core exercise fanatics came in the morning when DeSalvo's Martial Arts opened at six, stretching and then lifting weights in an intent silence broken only by the occasional quiet 'Good morning.' Mothers and married women came later, around nine or so, interspersed with college students and second-shift workers, or part-time data entry folk. The lunch crowd held businessmen who worked in the area and more of the morning mix, those running late or who worked late. 

In the afternoon, the young children began arriving, accompanied by whichever parent had carpool duty that day, leaving giggles and silly jokes in the quiet corners of the room. By late afternoon, the business rush began, as the young and not-so-young professionals came to release the day's stresses in the concentration of heavy weights or the controlled precision of one of Duncan MacLeod's martial arts classes. By seven-thirty, though, the last of the patrons were usually gone, leaving the sound of that one dripping shower-head in the men's locker and the sight of floors that once more needed to be swept. 

Pushing the broom around, tidying the towels and locking up the papers (and single-malt Scotch) in the office -- these were part of Duncan's closing rituals, something that tied off the scattered ends of his day. Methos understood this need of his for stillness, for completion. It was amazing how often the older man simply didn't make it back from errands or the University library until quarter of eight or later. Sometimes the Scot would go up to his apartment and find that the oldest immortal had already come in and started dinner without disturbing Duncan downstairs. Not because he wanted to dodge his lover, Mac knew, but because Methos wanted that peace for Mac almost as much as the Highlander cherished his lover's thoughtfulness in encouraging it. 

Aidan understood, too, he knew. The woman who made up the third side of their odd set of relationships often came over to work out with Duncan in the early mornings, or left word that she'd make dinner for any sparring partners who showed up. 

Regardless, no matter where the three of them slept, or who had what projects or problems ongoing, this time of night was set aside by tacit consent for the Highlander's peace and privacy. 

So the sense of immortal presence that spilled over him was, understandably, a surprise. 

The Scot turned and pulled his katana. The spill of moon- and streetlight against the brick and glass wall of the dojo created patterns of shadow across the floor; instinctively Duncan stepped into the light. In a clear, resonant voice he called, "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. Declare yourself." 

A soft, silky, tenor replied, "Are you indeed? I'm not here for either MacLeod, although your reputation does precede you. I'm known as Farouk al Yusuf." 

Duncan answered warily, "And if you'd not expected me, what are you doing here?" 

"Merely looking for someone. One of us. Would you know of any others in the city? I'd heard this might be the right place." 

The other man had not emerged from the shadowed hallway and Mac found himself hoping that Methos didn't pick this moment to come see what was keeping him. "There are a few of us around and about. It would depend on who you're looking for, wouldn't it?" 

"There was a woman, once. I remember her light-dappled in Spain, dark brown hair lit with red from the sun, grey eyes always watching everything, and a wit as sharp as her blades. Solana they called her then, although that name hasn't been used among us in quite a while. A few inches shorter than you, she was, an Irish woman with a triangle face and a long nose. She always wore an oak-leaf as necklace or brooch. Do you know her?" The man's tone caressed his description with a lascivious note that narrowed Duncan's eyes. Nothing in that voice spoke of caring, of friendship, or half a dozen other lighter emotions. Instead, lust colored the sound, and cloying possessiveness, and a charnel foulness that spoke of old, buried bones, stale blood, and the cold, metallic sweat of fear. 

Duncan made himself answer calmly, "No, I don't know anyone named Solana. But then, I don't know anyone named Farouk either. That's what you're known as now; would I know you under another name, perhaps?" 

Soft, deadly laughter filtered across the room. "Oh, perhaps, Highlander. I have heard of you, and of your kinsman, Connor. All have said that you hold to honor and fair value in a bargain: an admirable trait, that last. So I will give you an answer for an answer. Fair enough?" 

"Aye, it is." Duncan waited cautiously for it. 

"I'm best remembered as Sinan ibn Salman ibn Muhammad of Medina and other places. And my question to you, Highlander, is this: do you know the whereabouts of the woman who fits that description? Regardless of what name she may have given you." 

"Aye, Sinan, I know where she can be found, if not where she is right now." 

"I thought you might. Where is she, MacLeod?" 

The man who moved into the light surprised Duncan a little. From Aidan's story, the Scot had expected him to be... larger? There was so little of him to have earned the undying enmity that only fear balanced on rage could produce. Black hair, dark, tanned skin, a medium build in the shadows, nothing spectacular to him in size or height. Only an animal quickness to the pace... and then the Highlander saw those black eyes and understood full well why Aidan was wary of the man. 

Cold, calculating, unmoved by weakness either physical or emotional, Sinan's eyes were the window to his soul. That soul held memories that could have posed for H. P. Lovecraft's inspiration and edification. This man would watch as a thousand children were thrown to their deaths and not care, would help seal the doors on the gas chambers at Auschwitz -- and possibly had. Duncan considered for only a fraction of a second, then made his decision. 

"Challenge, Sinan." 

The condescending smile on the Arab's face tried to goad the younger man. "Oh, come, Highlander. I'm not here for her head or yours. I just want to... pay my regards. I haven't seen her in ages." 

"Aye, Sinan, I can guess why you're here. You'll not be getting her address from me. Tomorrow after morning prayers I'll see you at the old lighthouse. It's on the maps, about an hour out of town." 

"Will you see me there, Scot? Why should I?" Sinan stretched, contemptuous motion from a body that looked to be five or six years older than Duncan and was probably more along the lines of six centuries older. 

Immortal presence poured across both of them. The feel was as familiar to Duncan as his own heartbeat. Methos was on the outside stairs, listening, the younger man knew. Sinan, though, had no such comfort and moved, cat-quiet, ferret-swift, to get his back to a wall. 

"You can be there or I'll find you, Sinan. And if you run too well, I'll make sure the rest of the line of Ramirez knows how Solana came to be chained to a wall in a manor outside Cordoba. We might forget the one-on-one rule if we had to hunt you down," Duncan purred, his voice a flickering heat of rage. 

A cold, measured voice spoke from the doorway beyond Sinan. "Were you to refuse his challenge -- Sinan, is it? -- I would have to issue one of my own. And if you turn your back on me, I'll cut you down like the cur you are." Methos stood there, broadsword out, his face as unyielding as Duncan's. 

"Two of you? Interesting. The fabled honor of the MacLeods--" 

Duncan cut him off, still purring. "--learned logic, Sinan. I'll follow the rules as precisely as you. No less... but no more. Do you accept the challenge?" 

"Not in the morning. Now. There is an alley behind this building. Shall we? All this over a woman whose head I'm not even after." Sinan paused as he saw Duncan's face harden into stone. "Ah, did she finally tell someone then? Amazing. Alexandrias and Xenokrates never had that story of her, but you know it. If I thought Solana took immortal lovers, I'd say you've been between the slut's legs." 

Methos said softly, venom just under the tones. "Why don't you tell the story, Sinan? You love the sound of your own voice, and it might delay the inevitable." 

"Adam. No. I'll tell you later." The time pressed more strongly on Duncan by the second. Aidan was bringing her new student, Marc, over for dinner around 8:15. This needed to be finished before then, or Sinan would find a way to hurt her again. 

"Will you, MacLeod? Do you truly think Solana told you everything?" The malicious laughter pricked at the two men as it was meant to, but not so well as Sinan had hoped. 

The pale, slender man on the stair smiled. "Solana never tells anyone everything, but she never lies when she does talk. It's one of my favorite things about her. Fair enough, Mac, we'll ask her later. But I think he's mine." 

"MacLeod issued the challenge, boy. I'll get to you next." Sinan didn't understand the feral smile the two men exchanged, but he understood they were more confident in Adam's ability than he was. That alone told him it was time to escape and he turned his mind to evasions and the perfect time at which to flee. As Sinan moved toward the stair, a rippling, pulsing immortal presence wove through the air and he remarked sarcastically, "Well, well, is this a convention then?" 

The dark-haired woman who stood behind Adam stiffened when she saw him. Color drained from her face and she spoke very quietly when she finally forced his name out. "Sinan." 

"Ah, Solana. It has been a very long time." Sinan smiled and licked his lips, pleased to see her pale even further. He studied the slender young black man behind her, seeing the signs of mixed blood, as well as the long coat. "Have you taken a new student then?" 

Her attention crystallized into the here and now. It should have been painful to be on the receiving end of that intent grey stare. "One step toward him will be your call of challenge, Sinan." 

"You can't protect him from the Game," he remarked coldly. 

"No, but I can protect him from you. You're mine, Sinan, by blood right long since paid." 

"So I told them, my dear, but the young barbarian insisted on challenging." Sinan kept pricking and goading, cold and deliberate as ever. With four immortals, and no way out except through them, his only hope was to push and press until they gave way somehow. The student looked to be the weakest link. "So, have you told your latest disciple that speed is not always enough?" 

"He already knows," came her calm reply. "Dhonnchaidh, did you challenge him?" 

"Aye, that I did," Duncan growled, never taking his eyes off Sinan. "And we'll go settle it now in the alley, but you stay out of it." 

"You'd do better to ask the sun to rise in the north. He's mine." 

Sinan laughed. "Fighting over me? How amusing. But by all mean, Solana, I'll be happy to fight you, after your young pup there." The lanky young black man raised one eyebrow in a mannerism Sinan remembered Solana using, but he said nothing. 

"Do you have a name, boy?" 

"Names are sacred, Sinan. Keep your mouth off mine," came the calm reply. 

Solana snorted in amusement despite herself. "Out of everything I've taught you so far, you pick up that. My Gods, there's hope," she murmured. "Duncan...." 

To Sinan's surprise it was Adam who spoke, using a tone of command which would almost, the Arab conceded, have governed him. "Solana, be silent. Duncan challenged; Duncan will fight him. Should Sinan win, I'll take his head." To the assassin's greater surprise, she gave way. 

"As you will." She glared at Duncan and switched to a language Sinan didn't speak, much to his regret. 

In Gaelic, Aidan continued grimly, "If he so much as nicks you, I'll beat you bloody all over again when it's over. Be careful, beloved." 

In the same language, he reminded her, "You still owe me a fight. Remember Ned White?" When she nodded, breath hissing out in a restrained curse, Duncan waved a hand at Sinan, indicating the stairs. Switching back to English, he smiled viciously and said, "Shall we?" 

" _Inshallah_ ," came the mocking reply. 

Aidan laughed softly, chilling her student's blood, before she replied in English, "Oh, your God may will as he pleases, but my Lady remembers the days before He had worshippers. I think I'll come to see that it's fair." 

Methos said quietly, "No, you won't. Stay here with your student. I'll go. Not a word, Solana. You can start thinking about a story you never told me." Almost casually he pulled Marc behind him on the stairs, startling the young black man so much he didn't try to fight it. "You might as well move, Sinan, your chances won't improve by standing here." 

Sinan held his ground, all too aware he had killed himself through stupidity. Who would have thought that there would be four immortals in one space without bloodshed? Solana never took immortal lovers, and he had thought that at worst there might be one or two friends in the area -- but not the same place. Fool, triply-damned fool, in his mortal days Sinan would never have been so rash. Trying to buy time to plan, he asked, "For my curiosity, then, since you are so certain the Highlander will be my death -- how is that Solana will obey you? I thought she was the most intractable of women, an offense against Allah." 

Methos shrugged, mouth crooked. "Old habits." 

She answered almost in the same moment. "For all the reasons you will never understand, Sinan. The words would mean nothing to you." She moved to finish blocking her student against the wall away from the Arab's sword. "May the Lady send you what you deserve, Sinan." 

Sinan reached out to trail his hand across her face as he walked past, but Adam's broadsword swung up between the two of them. The Arab paused his hand in mid-motion, having nearly brought his wrist down on the razor-sharp edge of the blade, and turned his mocking smile toward the pale man. The contained, ancient menace in those young, gold-green eyes froze him. In Arabic, the assassin murmured, "Who are you? Why do I not know your name?" 

The smile that curved Adam's face never reached his eyes as he answered equally quietly in the same language. "You do. I'm Death. Did no one tell you?" 

Aidan studied Sinan warily and commented in Gaelic, "You do realize that my newest student really ought to see a quickening?" 

Duncan slid back into his birth tongue and answered, "Watch from the loft, then. But stay inside." Switching back to English, he continued, "You've had your fun, Sinan, but you wanted the back alley and right now, so let's do it." 

The Arab moved down the stairs past Solana and her student, smiling at the young man to make him nervous. The boy's face never changed, much to his surprise. So the three older immortals were teaching him control as well. A pity; if this day was to end with his own death as the assassin suspected, it would have been pleasant to have taken the memory of the boy's terror with him. Even Solana hadn't been as frightened as he would have hoped. A bare two hours with her... undivided attention would have changed that. He kept all betraying emotion from his face and muscles, but inwardly, the assassin raged not to have completed the cycle of years by repeating her torture. Her pain had ensured him a thousand years of luck last time. This time, it seemed, Allah did not will it. 

Behind him, he heard the two men following. MacLeod's word would hold for this, he sensed; Sinan had no need to fear for his head until the battle began. Interesting indeed that this man who called himself Death held himself constrained by the Highlander's word. The Four Horsemen were only legend, though, from religious babble meant to control fools and sheep. They had nothing to do with this young immortal. 

Sinan appraised the alley thoughtfully, although he had checked earlier to ascertain its suitability for possible combat. Turning back to make a request of MacLeod, he paused in surprise. A third man had walked into the alley, leaning on a cane. 

MacLeod followed the Arab's eyes and turned, then smiled ruefully. "Joe. You're early for dinner. Should you really be here?" 

"And miss this? Who're you kidding, Mac?" The man called Joe nodded to 'Death.' "His fight, I take it?" 

The paler immortal shrugged calmly, never taking his eyes off Sinan. "Only because he got there first. You buying afterwards?" 

Sinan found himself becoming unsettled by this casual arrogance on the part of both immortals. Equally disturbing was the appearance of this mortal who so obviously knew exactly what was going on... and had no curiosity as to his identity? Dark eyes narrowed and the Arab stared more intently at him. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to trace down the meaning of the tattoo that had been on the arms of those spying on him. Perhaps they had not been from the oil cartel he had annoyed after all. 

The mortal had cheerfully answered while being studied, although the level gaze directed at Sinan told the Arab he knew damn well what kind of thoughts Sinan was having. "Me buy for you? How much do you owe me already? Now Mac I'll buy for. Hell, I'll buy him a case when this bastard goes down." 

Sinan said mildly, "My mother was second wife, but married nonetheless according to the dictates of Allah, merciful is His name. Do you have some grudge against me?" 

The strange mortal answered, "You're breathing and you have your head." 

MacLeod stared at his grey-haired friend in surprise. "What did he do to you?" 

"Killed half-dozen good friends of mine, Mac. Aidan and Marc safely inside?" 

Mentally, Sinan made a note of the names. If he lived through this, he would be hunting them and first names were at least a starting point. 

"Yeah, they are. Ready, Sinan?" Duncan spun his sword a couple times, an old habit to check his grip and focus his mind, settling into a defensive stance with one shoulder leading. The answer surprised him. 

"A moment to pray, since you have offered." Sinan faced toward Mecca (east and south from here, he knew) and offered the call to Allah. There was no place to wash, no prayer rug on which to make his obeisance, but Allah was great and would understand that no warrior would kneel with such unprincipled opponents nearby. The Scot could be trusted; the other two, however.... 

Duncan waited patiently, surprised though he was. He had never expected that Sinan would be devout, although Methos and Aidan had been at great lengths to force him to quit anticipating things from his opponents. 

Without any warning, the other man was ready for the fight. His scimitar caught the light as he attacked in utter silence. Duncan caught the blow on his katana and threw it off to one side, body twisting in a vain attempt to dodge the kris the other man had pulled out during the rush. The slender, flame-curved blade sliced deeply under his lowest rib. The Scot laughed harshly, a sound with no humor in it, and came back around with an underhand blow which forced Sinan back and away. 

"First blood to you, assassin. Would it annoy you to know you fight like Solana?" Duncan launched half a dozen attacks as he spoke, a blurring figure-eight pattern which forced Sinan back and away down the alley. The smaller man did fight like Aidan, though. The slashing sword attacks hid the more vicious dagger strikes and Sinan fought with a swift, evasive precision that Aidan had forced Duncan to learn to cope with. Coldly, deliberately, Duncan set himself to kill this man who fought like his lover. 

Joe stood by Methos and watched this fight, inwardly appalled at the raging viciousness in Duncan's body language and fighting style. All he allowed himself to say, though, was, "Mac's pissed, hmm?" 

"Yes, he is," came the cold, clipped answer. Methos never took his eyes off the fight, gauging both Duncan's attacks and Sinan's responses to them. The younger man should win this, but if he didn't the assassin would never stand up. 

"Any idea why?" The Watcher asked it from personal interest as well as professional. He frowned when Duncan parried Sinan's sword sharply to one side and stepped back immediately to dodge the dagger following behind it. There were at least three counters Mac had been known to use when an opponent did that; why hadn't he used one of them? 

"Offhand? I think Sinan raped Aidan at some point. I mean to have the story out of her when I go upstairs. Feel free to come along." 

The iron implacability of the voice caught Joe's attention before the words did. His mind ran on two tracks at once as he watched Mac apparently play with his opponent. Twice now, the Highlander could have inflicted a lethal or crippling wound on the Arab; both times he had held back and drew blood without trying to end the fight. What the aging Watcher finally said caught Methos off-guard. 

"She's a grown woman, you know. Hasn't been your student for over two thousand years, old friend. Some law that says Edana had to tell you about something as personal as rape?" 

Now it was Methos turn to be caught off-guard. However, even on the days when it seemed closer to self-loathing, self-knowledge was what kept the oldest immortal alive. Methos believed in fighting others, not himself. So his answer to Joe came in a more normal voice while he watched his male lover run a foot of the katana's blade through Sinan's chest, just under the collarbone. 

"A law? No. I'm angry because MacLeod knows the story but I don't. I'm too old to be getting jealous of my lovers, aren't I?" The calm self-ridicule somehow mingled perfectly with the ringing clatter of fine steel hitting concrete as Sinan dropped the scimitar from suddenly nerveless fingers. Had his other hand been empty he might have been able to catch the handgrip as it fell, but the kris slowed his reaction time too much. 

Mac used his greater size to slam the assassin against the alley wall. The Highlander stepped back as Sinan doubled over, trying to breathe from lungs momentarily paralyzed after being forcibly emptied. A karate strike made Sinan drop the dagger as well, before the Scot yanked him up by his shirt collar. 

"Be glad I'm not you, Sinan. A clean death is better than you deserve," Mac said coldly. 

Immortal healing let Sinan draw a breath and he gasped, "Death is always clean, infidel. And you are weak. Had a man raped my woman, I would not let him die so easily. Solana is yours, isn't she?" The voice was too weak to carry far but Duncan heard it. In the ringing silence behind the clash of weapons so did Joe and Methos. 

"No. Edana ni Emer belongs to herself, Sinan. That was your mistake the last time, too." Duncan set his sword against the other man's throat and drew a quick downward stroke to sever the neck. 

In the moment before the quickening began, the Scot glanced over at his friends. The relief in Joe's face he had expected, but not the approval. Methos just nodded to him; the expression on his face was that of a warrior reclaiming a shieldmate after a battle. No relief showed yet, but the Highlander knew it was there, along with the urge to shake his lover, or hug him, or something equally violent. The quickening crashed down over him, then, and rational thought vanished. 

* * * * *

In the loft, Marc watched from the window and realized that he was appalled to see lightning strike at Duncan again and again. Joe and Adam were standing well back, although it was obvious that Adam was fighting to hold himself still. Yeah, the older immortals had told him about a quickening before, and while Marc knew about the visible effects of the light and the lightning intellectually; it was another thing entirely to see something show up in a small alley in Seacouver that ought to be on a movie screen. To see it around three people who quibbled over favorite beers or scotch, and moved their feet off of tables before Aidan could swat them, made him shiver as his perceptions of reality restructured. The Game was suddenly much, much more real for him than it had been, even during his time with Chris Henslowe. 

When the lightning subsided, sliding into Duncan's skin and vanishing, Adam moved forward and caught him before he could fall. Only then did Aidan turn away from the window. "Marc, go help them with the body, please." 

The slender young black man turned to his teacher in surprise; he hadn't expected that instruction. Then he realized her skin was paler than usual, even for her, and he nodded once. "Not a problem, Teach. Hey, why don't you get some hot tea going? It's cold out there; Duncan will want some." Marc didn't mention that he thought she needed it worse, but he left before she could accuse him of reverting to his Italian upbringing again. 

Aidan's eyes followed Marc until he vanished into the stairwell, but she saw Sinan still. A small part of her mind had locked itself onto the trivial details of his fighting style, which was too similar to her own for comfort. Being associated with him in any way left her nauseous, an extremely unfamiliar feeling for an immortal. Too, she felt... slimy. His eyes on her, the attempt to touch her skin, and the intimate, caressing tones of his voice had brought too many memories surging up in her. An immortal's near-perfect recall was both blessing and curse, as she knew full well. This time she could have done without it. 

Moving almost on auto-pilot, Aidan set the coffeemaker to heat water, not wanting to leave the tea kettle over a burner for any length of time. Then, out of sheer necessity, she headed for the shower. Her skin was crawling, and the heat of Spain in her memories had not included torrents of hot water over the head. For a long moment, she seriously considered cutting her hair as an added buffer against the memories, but reason reasserted itself, along with her longstanding rule of not making drastic decisions around quickenings and instead she turned her face into the downpour. 

* * * * *

In the alley, Joe nodded hello to Marc and asked, "Aidan decide you needed lessons in clean-up?" 

Marc smiled at the Watcher, genuinely fond of the man. "Yeah, she did. Have you noticed that she has the oddest ideas of basic and advanced training?" The youngest immortal there kept a surreptitious eye on Duncan; he'd never seen the other man look like this, and he had seen the Scot in just about every stage of laughter, concentration, or exhaustion. Duncan taught him weapons and unarmed combat on a regular basis, after all, although all three older immortals claimed that where his training was concerned Aidan was the one in charge, responsible, or guilty, depending on the viewpoint. 

Duncan was standing against the alley wall, katana dangling limply from one hand while he rubbed at that arm with the other hand, apparently to warm himself. Dark hair stood out against red brick where he had his head tilted back, eyes closed. Methos studied his lover closely, seeing the hunched shoulders and one muscle jumping along his jaw. Moving slowly, he leaned in and asked quietly, "All right?" 

"Not really. I haven't felt this filthy after a quickening since...." Duncan dropped the topic, unwilling to give the name and pulled away from the extended arm without ever opening his eyes. 

Methos finished it for him, their link open in full force whether Duncan wanted it or not. "Since Caspian? They'd have gotten along until Sinan decided Caspian wasn't sane enough to suit him." Deliberately, the older immortal stepped forward and wrapped both arms around the Highlander before he could retreat again. "And you're not filthy, and it's not contagious. Come upstairs. A shower will help and so will dinner." 

Duncan tensed under his arms, then relaxed against his lover almost convulsively, shaking despite his best efforts. Head buried against the other man's shoulder, he muttered, "You might want to take the katana. I don't need a weapon for a little while, this one's... rough." 

Methos rubbed his back comfortingly with one hand and reached for the sword with the other. With one apparently casual step he twisted them so that Joe and Marc couldn't see Duncan's face. Still soothing his lover with touch, Methos began speaking quietly to him in Gaelic. 

There was nothing serious, in what he said, nothing profound, just Duncan's name and the year, where they were, who they loved -- all of it designed to help the younger man hold his sanity against the scattershot memories shivering through his mind as this latest quickening settled into place. Methos played on every button he had learned over the years, including the fact that the Highlander was incredibly susceptible to the sound of the older man's voice wrapped around his given name, and held the Scot to his sanity by sheer force of will. 

* * * * *

Joe finished his call to the other Watchers for some help with the body (and, he suspected, to start a quiet party in a few Watcher offices now that Sinan was dead) and made some more mental notes. God knew Mac usually coped pretty well with quickenings, largely due to Scottish stubbornness and Highland stamina. This one was obviously hitting him hard but Methos seemed to have it under control. The 5K immortal, as Rich insisted on referring to him, coaxed Duncan up to the loft as Joe watched. 

The bluesman was looking forward to a drink himself after this one. Instead, he directed Marc in the finer points of moving the body out of sight, regaling him the while with stories of some of the more inventive ways other immortals had been known to deal with the problem of an inconvenient corpse. 

The young Italian (despite his coloring, Joe had to think of Marcus Aquilla Scipio as Italian -- one too many late night arguments, complete with vehement hand-waving, arm motions, and thumbnail flicking insults had left an indelible mark) followed his orders cheerfully, saying, "You know, I always thought love at first sight was a myth. But if you can have loathing at first sight, hey, why not the reverse. And I thought I'd seen scum on two legs before?" 

Joe nodded his head in agreement. "Yeah, he was something. You want to fill in my records so Mac doesn't have to? What happened that I came over for dinner and found Mac killing a guy on the Watcher's Most Wanted list? Well, if we had one." 

Marc chuckled. "Hey, do you have something like Crimestoppers? A toll-free number to call in and be assigned a number? '$10,000 for swords leading to the decapitation of this criminal,' and all that?" He scooped up Sinan's sword and dagger, examining the quality of the metal reflexively, then turned to give Joe the story he wanted, or as much of it as Marc knew. 

* * * * *

The rumble of running water in the shower could be heard as soon as Methos slammed down the grate on the elevator. Duncan shivered, then managed to smile and said, "I guess I'm not the only one who wanted to get clean. I'll wait till she's through." 

Methos dragged him toward the bathroom. "No, you won't. Come on, Duncan, it's not like we've never shared a shower, and nothing will catch on fire in the kitchen before Marc or Joe gets up here. You need this as badly as she does." The thickening Scottish accent was always a reliable distress indicator on Mac, not that Methos had really needed confirmation of the feelings he was catching across their linked quickenings. 

The oldest immortal set the katana inside the bathroom door and quickly peeled out of his own shoes and clothes. That done, he stripped Duncan's clothes off matter-of-factly with none of the teasing touches and foreplay they so often used. Only then did Methos push him gently into the water as Aidan automatically made room for them. 

Duncan hissed at the heat of the water and reached out to turn it down. Even with immortal healing, Aidan's skin was bright red where she stood under the scalding deluge. Methos reached out and took the sponge away from her before she could scrub her skin raw. The older immortal had to remind himself that usually it was the two of them soothing him against nightmares. He was twice Aidan's age; he should be able to handle two distraught lovers at once. _Still, having even one of them coherent would have been nice,_ he groused softly to himself. 

Aidan reached for Duncan, needing his touch although unsure if it was for his comfort or her own. When he pulled back she stared in mingled surprise and hurt. "Dhonnchaidh?" 

Methos said softly, "Give it a minute, Edana. This one's taking him hard." Left unspoken was his concern that at this point in the still-unstable quickening her touch might trigger Sinan's apparent obsession. Methos moved to stand between the two of them, ostensibly to scrub Mac's back. Aidan passed him the soap without a word, but managed a smile when he stroked two fingers across her cheek. 

Duncan leaned against the shower wall, head propped on crossed forearms as the shower spray pounded on his back and shoulders. Methos said nothing, just applied shampoo first, then soap, with the impersonal touch of a masseur. Muscles jumped under his hands; from the reactions, he knew perfectly well that the Scot was fighting off odd memories and the quickening-sparked arousal that was an almost overwhelming urge to grab one of his lovers and screw their brains out. Under the circumstances, Methos suspected it had better not be Edana. 

In Greek, the older man asked her, "Can you pass me the massage oil?" 

She raised one eyebrow, but the smile was still there. Shifting to Greek, she replied, "Shall I leave?" 

"Gods, no, love. Stay, please." One side of his mouth curled up in an answering smile as he pointed out, "Someone has to help brace me." 

That drew a giggle and Aidan told him, "You get him ready, and I'll get you ready -- will that suit you?" Without waiting for an answer, she poured some of the oil into one palm, shielding it from the shower spray with her body. 

Methos wrapped one hand around Duncan's straining erection, which drew a groan of protest. With the other hand, he raked his nails across the Scot's ribs. 

"Methos, don't. I can't--" The words cut off with a gasp when the older man bit down on the back of his neck, and Duncan growled something inarticulate. The skilled hand on his cock gave him no chance to protest further and stole any will to fight this. Adrenaline was still surging in Duncan's blood from the fight, and blood lust combined instantly with a less lethal desire in the crucible that Methos was making of his body. Fine. Methos was certainly old enough to know what kind of fire he was playing with here. 

Aidan had just finished working the oil into Methos when Duncan growled again and turned to trap the other man in his arms, kissing him fiercely. The Irish woman flinched away for a second, then forced herself to hold still. Duncan had been rough before after a particularly nasty quickening, but even at his worst it was still what she'd sometimes heard called 'truck-driver sex': wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and with none of his usual consideration for his partners' pleasure. However, after the first fast and heated bout, he always made it up to them later. 

_Besides,_ a small voice in the back of her mind murmured, _you can talk? What about that one quickening when you trapped him on his own couch with his own clothes?_

Duncan came up for air and stole the oil from her hands, reaching around Methos to get it. A grin twitched briefly at the corners of his mouth when he realized that Aidan was giggling. He had no idea why she was doing that now of all times, but he'd ask later. Much later. The Scot reached up and directed the water away from them all for a moment while he applied the oil to his own cock. 

Methos reached down to help and got his hand swatted away, with a muttered comment of "Oh, no, I'll get it. How do you want to do this? Since you started it?" 

"Oh, up against a wall, braced against Edana, whatev--" Duncan's mouth stopped his suggestions, nipping sharply at Methos' lower lip and then licking at the bite mark. Methos shivered and turned when the Scot pulled back, propping his hands against the wall and spreading his legs enough to give the younger man access. 

Duncan held onto his control with both hands, trying to enter his lover slowly enough not to hurt him and fast enough not to go mad. Aidan slipped under Methos' raised arm and tilted her head up to kiss him slowly and thoroughly. With one strong hand, she began stroking Methos' cock, knowing that would finish relaxing him to the other man's stroke as Duncan slid home. 

Methos gasped against her mouth as the Scot pulled back, almost leaving his body, then thrust into him strongly. Again and again Duncan stroked into him, well and thoroughly fucking him, hands lying over Methos' hands on the tiles. The Highlander bit at the back of his neck, the same spot the older man had gotten him earlier. At the same time, Aidan nipped at the base of his throat just above the collarbone. Her hands had never stopped moving on him and Methos groaned in pleasure. 

The link spun desire back and forth between the two men, feeding it with each rebound, until neither of them was conscious of anything except the feel of Duncan thrusting within Methos and the older man's equally fierce movements back against him; the touch of Aidan's hands on Methos' cock and balls; the taste of warm skin and Aidan's sweet mouth. For a second as the orgasms broke across both of them, neither was sure which of them was feeling what, but it didn't matter anyway. Duncan bit down into Methos' shoulder to stifle his cry and Aidan drank Methos' moan out of his mouth, never letting him go as both men came. 

Then she was very busy for a few seconds making sure neither of them fell. She made a mental note to herself, when she had them balanced between the wall and her shoulders, that she needed to increase the weights she was working with, again. 

Methos recovered first, taking all of his own weight off her and some of Duncan's as well. The older immortal winced at the still-healing bite on his shoulder, but said nothing, knowing it would set off a fine case of Scottish apologies and brooding. No sense in destroying the more relaxed mood all three of them were now in, not when he'd maneuvered so carefully to instill it. 

Behind him, Duncan caught his breath and trailed kisses across Methos' shoulders and nape, one hand stroking lightly along the other man's ribs in a silent thank you. When the trembling in his legs eased somewhat, he carefully withdrew from his lover's body, leaving an arm wrapped around Methos' waist. "Are you all right?" 

That drew a chuckle. "Other than living up to the old cliché of seeing stars? Certainly." 

The Scot stretched contentedly and sighed in relief as the quickening began to settle and his foul mood fell away. "What did I do before I fell in love with you two?" 

Aidan snickered and said, "I don't know, Dhonnchaidh; sheep, maybe?" 

"Been talking to Connor again, Aidan?" He turned to her, still too sated to be irritated, and realized that she had been neglected. Mouth twitching with amusement, he said, "Methos?" 

"Hmm?" The older immortal opened his eyes and reached to direct the water back at them. Time to clean up before they went out front, and Joe should only have to ignore so much, after all. 

"I think we forgot something." Realization dawned on Methos' face, Duncan saw, a scant moment before the Scot pulled Aidan to him, trapping her mouth with his. Her shiver against him was too convulsive to be pleasure, and recently acquired half-memories gave him some ideas of why she was skittish around him just now. So he gentled their kiss deliberately, soothing her with small caresses of his lips and gentle nibbles along her jaw, until she relaxed in his arms and began to respond with something closer to her usual enthusiasm. 

Methos stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around both of them as he began to kiss and nip his way along her neck and shoulders after swinging waist-length hair out of the way. The older man continued to support Aidan with one arm around her waist as Mac slid down her body, licking and kissing her nipples and belly as he went to his knees. The Scot used both hands to gently press her legs apart, then proceeded to prove that Amanda had had good reasons all those years to keep coming back. 

The Irishwoman shuddered as Duncan's mouth trailed exquisite pressure across every sensitive area she had, and his fingers stimulated any she might have forgotten. She arched against Methos, willingly trapped within his arms, her head thrown back on his shoulder as he angled his arms upward to cup her breasts in his hands. His hands teased and pinched her nipples while he nipped and bit at her exposed throat, and very soon her cries of pleasure and pleading rang against the shower tiles. 

* * * * *

Joe and Marc heard the noises from the bathroom and glanced at each other, hands rubbing identically across their mouths to hide the grins. Both of them gave up and laughed when they saw the other. Joe finally said, "I suppose we should make sure that nothing gets too hot -- on the stove, that is." 

Marc chuckled and said, "You think they still need hot tea for shock?" The young immortal moved toward the refrigerator, almost as familiar with everything in the loft as he was with the kitchen at Aidan's. "Soft drink, beer, or whiskey, Joe?" 

"I'm not as resilient as you folks; how about some of your coffee? It's cold out there." The bluesman walked over to the bar and settled into a stool. "Just this once, pal, I'm gonna let you play bartender." 

Marc glanced over at him from where he was getting the coffee and filters out. "You okay, Joe?" 

"Yeah, fine, Marc. Just a long day today, and I thought I was gonna get to unwind here, not Watch a fight like that." The smile he gave Marc reassured the young man more than the words. 

"Oh, in other words, you can't wait until Erin gets into town next week," came the teasing reply as Marc measured spices into the coffe, casually gauging amounts by eye. 

"Laugh all you like, you've already been volunteered to help unpack and arrange her stuff when she gets here," came Joe's cheerful answer. 

"I what? By who?" Marc flipped the switch on the coffee-maker more forcefully than necessary. 

"Whom," Joe pointed out with an understated wickedness to make the young black man roll his eyes in exasperation. "By Aidan and Duncan both. If you try to get out of it, I suspect Adam will have some of his more sarcastic analogies and anecdotes for you, too. Erin's a good friend of his." Joe listened to the changing sounds from the bathroom. Aidan had been quiet for a little while now, and it sounded like the water had just shut off. 

"Oh, great. Unpack boxes or listen to Adam discussing the youth of today. Thanks, I'll unpack. I'll even pretend to be cheerful while I do it." Marc rooted through the kitchen, dragging out plates for the salad that seemed to be intended for dinner, bowls for the minestrone in the crockpot, and cream and sugar for the coffee which was spreading heavenly smells around the kitchen. The Italian quite freely admitted to being a caffeine-fiend. Aidan swore up and down he had to be related to Damiano, who made (she claimed) the strongest espresso that had ever stood up in a cup and smacked her. Marc had grinned and pointed out that they were related... through her. 

Joe paused in mid-reach for his mug. "Do you think they remembered to take clothes in there?" 

Marc finished putting butter and salad dressings on the table while he considered the question. Aidan had been upset when she sent him downstairs and Duncan had just taken a head. While Marc hadn't taken a quickening yet, he had been warned about what it did to your libido. 

Aidan's comment, backed up by Adam, had been, 'You find yourself thinking that getting laid, right here, right now, is a very good idea. It's not quite the same as drinking a six-pack and thinking anyone looks good, but trust me, sex seems like a necessity, not an option.' So, all things considered.... 

"No, Joe, I don't think they did. Are we feeling generous?" 

"Of course we are. You set the table and pulled out dinner, I saw you." The Watcher grinned at him. "Besides, I want to see if Mac gets embarrassed." 

"He's already bare-assed," Marc pointed out and then had to fight down his grin as Duncan did in fact emerge from the bathroom wearing only a towel and obviously looking for clothes. The Scot gathered up two robes and a pair of sweats and headed back into the bathroom. 

Marc glanced over at Joe and shrugged. "Well, I was mostly right." 

"Yeah," Joe agreed judiciously, and a good bit more loudly than Marc had spoken. "Mostly would describe how well that covered necessities. I see he's gone back to regimental dressing." 

Marc raised an eyebrow, sighed, and decided he was going to be blamed for this regardless. Might as well earn the bruises he could already feel himself getting tomorrow when he and Mac had their daily sparring match. "Okay, Joe, so what is regimental?" 

Duncan called over his shoulder, "Regimental is why they shot that one scene in Braveheart from a distance, Marc." The Highlander retreated to the bathroom, dignity intact, as Joe snorted into his coffee. 

"Which scene?" Marc waited patiently for the laughter to die down before Joe could explain the reference to him. Another movie he'd missed, apparently. By the time he could quit laughing over the idea of an entire army mooning their opponents across the field of battle, the three older immortals had come out to get dinner. 

Aidan pulled sweats out of Duncan's dresser, pulled the drawstring tight, and stole an oversized t-shirt as well. On the way to the table, she rested her hand on Marc's shoulder. "All right, Marc?" 

"I'm fine, Aidan. I won't ask if you are," he teased, amber eyes dancing. "But, Teach, who was that bastard? My God, my skin is still crawling, and he wasn't after me!" 

She kept her expression carefully casual as she went to get coffee. With her back to her student Aidan explained, "Sinan ibn Salman ibn Muhammad of Medina was born more than a thousand years ago. 818 or 820, I believe. He epitomized the belief that anything can be bought, and would contract to do anything. For a generation, he was the Old Man of the Mountain in Alamut." She turned, mug in hand, and saw complete incomprehension on Marc's face. 

"The what?" 

Adam answered that one while he grated parmesan cheese to top the soup. "The head of the original holy fanatics who coined the term assassins. Aidan, isn't he the one who tried to kill Salah al-Din?" 

Duncan settled bowls of food onto the table and passed out bread while she answered. "Yes, that's him. From Ramadan to Ramadan they were after each other's throats." 

Joe took the minestrone gratefully, but his attention was on Aidan. "Wait a second, Aidan. Are we discussing the same Saladin? The Saladin of the Third Crusade, the one who retook Jerusalem from the Crusaders? That bastard in the alley tried to kill him?" Before she could answer, he muttered, "Wait, I do remember reading about that, now that you mention it." 

"Sinan nearly succeeded, Joe. One of Saladin's more loyal nobles threw himself in front of the knife and died for him. Saladin spent a year living in chainmail, taking it off only to bathe and then only in absolute privacy and with a sword on the edge of the bath." She smiled wryly. "Sounds like one of us, doesn't it? It was necessary, though. What terrified people the most about the assassins was the invisibility factor. You never knew who owed allegiance to Alamut. Some of the most trusted advisers, eunuchs, and mamluks of the day were his, in what seemed like every court. Sinan expanded his network to an extreme that would have impressed even Hassan who had founded Alamut a hundred and more years before." 

Joe could feel the tension radiating off both Mac and Aidan; this might be a good time to change the topic, he decided. "I don't see it, Aidan. Going after Saladin sounds like it was too personal to be effective as a reign of terror. Now Richelieu has always struck me as perfect, impersonal power." 

Adam shook his head in admiration. "He was impressive, Joe. If he'd been one of us, I'd be giving him good odds to make the Gathering. For that matter, though, for sheer ruthlessness, what about the Duke of Ch'in?" 

Between them, Joe and Methos kept the discussion on historical figures for the rest of the meal, covering rulers and philosophers, architects and artists. Marc got well and thoroughly distracted by the last, having earned a degree in architecture before his first death. All five of them argued vehemently about proper housing design, with Joe, of all people, in favor of some of the circular housing styles used in the American Southwest. 

Dinner over and cleaned up, though, the Watcher offered, "Marc, you want to catch a movie? I've been wanting to see Rush Hour." 

Marc glanced at his teacher, thought about his current finances, and nodded. "Sounds like fun, Joe. Tell you what, night owl, do you want to catch Rocky Horror at midnight, too?" 

Aidan asked, "Did you forget we're going running tomorrow morning?" 

"Any chance I can run with Adam tomorrow afternoon instead?" Marc didn't bother trying to look wistful; Duncan did it better. He'd found that with Aidan it worked better to be reasonable and offer an alternative. 

She glanced at Methos, who shrugged and said, "I'll run him into the ground for you, Aidan." 

The look he received from her student was almost a challenge. "Right. Sure, you will. All three of you can beat the hell out of me in a fight, but I can by God run." 

Joe put his face in one hand, muttering, "Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what he's done." More loudly, he continued, "Adam's gotten real good at running over the years, Marc. I'll stock in some tiger balm for you tomorrow." 

Methos shot him an amused look. "Thanks, Joe. I'll remember you in my will and specify that the bar tab is completely falsified." 

Aidan sighed and said, "If you're going to make the 9:30 show, you'd better go, you two. Joe, you'll give him a ride home?" 

"No problem, Aidan. Who's sleeping where tonight?" 

She glanced at the two men who traded a look back and forth, talking to each other without words the way they sometimes did. Methos nodded once and said, "Her place, Joe." 

Marc snapped his fingers in mock dismay. "Damn, now you'll know when I get in. So much for carousing until dawn." 

"Oh, you can stay out until dawn," Duncan replied with a wicked smile. "But you're still running with Adam tomorrow afternoon and sparring with me tomorrow night. If you want to try that on two hours of sleep, well, it won't kill you. But I might." 

Joe choked at that. Aidan shrugged and calmly replied, "It's how I was trained, Joe. I'm still alive. It won't hurt him permanently." 

Marc nodded seriously and said, "I'll be there and I'll get some sleep. I agreed to train however you said, Aidan. I'm not going back on that." He traded a rueful smile with her. "I still owe you for that steak dinner, remember?" 

"I remember." She smiled at him, remembering the afternoon when she had stolen her latest student from her enemies. He still had more bad habits to unlearn than she truly liked to think about, but he was getting better steadily. "Go on, go see your movies, gentlemen. I'll see you in the morning, Joe. Marc, we'll talk about how your French is going tomorrow." 

Marc groaned but passed Joe his cane. "Come on, let's get out of here before I get farther in over my head, Joe." 

Aidan watched the door even after they had left, then returned to sit on the floor in front of the couch. Duncan reached one hand down to stroke her hair. Methos brought beers for all three of them and locked the hallway door, then settled against Duncan on the couch in the boneless sprawl that still amused both his lovers. 

Beer in hand, Aidan shifted so that her head rested against his waist, which left her in easy range of both of them, but she didn't seem inclined to talk just yet. Duncan finally broke the silence, asking quietly, "Are you all right, Edana?" 

She sighed and answered, "I'm not the one who took his head. I should rightfully be asking you that." 

"You're dodging the question, _luaidhe_. Are you all right?" The Scot had no intention of dropping this, although he felt Methos tense against his chest. Setting his beer bottle on the floor near the couch, Duncan laid one arm on his lover's thigh, trying to convey support without making him feel trapped. 

"I'm all right, Duncan." She studied the lamp across the room for a few seconds, then sighed again and said, "Methos, I'm sorry. I should have told you about Sinan before, I know." 

Despite centuries of familiarity with her tendency to head straight to the heart of disagreements, her apology disarmed him. "Yes, but I had no excuse for being jealous. Solely for my curiosity -- did you tell Duncan about him before or after you two were lovers?" 

She twisted up onto her knees to look at both of them, surprised. "You were jealous that Dhonnchaidh knew? Oh, Gods, Magister, I never even thought of that. It came up when I first dealt with Cassandra, before Joe ever told you I was here. I had no idea at that point that you were even still alive. And, too, it seemed... relevant." 

Methos gave her a crooked smile, carefully ignoring the reference to Cassandra. "I suppose it was just that I'm not used to him knowing something about you I don't. Unfair, Gods know, since I knew you when you were still a skinny teen-ager, all temper and no chest, but there it is." 

Duncan chuckled at that image. "Let me guess," and he planted a kiss on the top of Methos' head. "All long braids and grubby feet and not grown into her height yet. How old were you, Edana, twelve?" 

"Something like," she answered, smiling at the memory. "And not grubby, just grass-stained. It's a fine distinction, Dhonnchaidh. Besides, Magister, I still don't have a chest." 

Methos tilted his head back and confided, "Grubby. She's just being picky." Because he wanted to get it over, though, the older man diverted the conversation back. "But I was being a jealous ass. It's your business, Edana. Your option to tell, not mine to order you to talk about it." 

That got a smile. "Oh, I don't know, you give me orders all the time. I just ignore half of them." When he looked indignant, Aidan looked contrite and said, "Oh, excuse me, suggestions. Wrong word again?" 

More seriously, and studying the floor as if to memorize the knots in the carpet, she told them, "I just... Methos, I wouldn't have told Ramirez, except that he found me where Sinan had left me. It did add to my Egyptian profanity, but I never knew what it meant, so I haven't used the phrases. Do you want the story, teacher mine? Duncan knows the bare bones of it; you're entitled to hear it too, if you want. If it won't trouble you, Dhonnchaidh," she added. 

Methos said quietly, "No, you don't have to tell me. Sinan's dead, it's over. Assuming, that is, that you aren't going to try to scrub your own skin off again." 

Duncan waited patiently to see what they would decide, although he already knew more about the incident than he cared to. It had been one of the most vivid of the memories he had taken during the quickening. Sinan had been almost obsessed toward the end with repeating his rape and torture of Aidan, and angry that he had missed the millennia anniversary. The number had held some significance for him that the Highlander hadn't deciphered yet, and hoped not to understand. But with his would-be victim only yards away, Sinan's thoughts had been extremely focused on her, which had made the quickening and its after-effects more difficult than usual. 

Aidan shook her head in answer to Methos' question. "No, I won't. His eyes made me feel... filthy? Defiled? As if I'd rolled in the midden of an inhabited castle. I couldn't seem to get clean," she finally confessed. "No matter what I did, no matter how hot the water was." 

Both Duncan and Methos reached for her, sitting up to pull her in between them on the couch. The Highlander asked, "Are you okay now?" 

"Having you two come in helped, and your touch made me feel like something... worthwhile again." Aidan tucked her head onto Duncan's shoulder, pulling her feet up to rest on Methos' lap. "Both of you trusting me to stay while you made love finished it. Hard to believe what Sinan tried to make of me with the two of you there and loving me." 

She reached for her beer and took a long drink, then said, "All right, then, Sinan. Now that he's dead, I can tell you this once and be done with it and him." Head pillowed on Duncan's shoulder, far-seeing grey eyes closed for once, Aidan began her tale. 

"909 Anno Domini it was, and I was living in Spain for a while with Ramirez. Popular rumor assumed I was his daughter, and that if he would only stay home from the wars for a little while, I could be married off quite profitably to a count in Navarre who was interested in my hand." 

Duncan interrupted curiously, "Did you want to marry the man?" 

That drew a soft chuckle. "Actually, yes, and I did end up married to him, the shortest marriage of my long life, but that's a different story, Dhonnchaidh. In any case, the Christian Spaniards -- with the help of one degenerate Egyptian metallurgist turned noble -- were trying to drive back the Moors." Duncan laughed at the description of Ramirez, and Methos muttered something about it being one of the more accurate verbal portraits he'd heard of the old bastard. 

"Ramirez was off trying to hold off the soon-to-be Caliph of Cordoba, Abd-al-Rahman, and I was running the estate for him. It's amazing what women are allowed and expected to do in wartime that's thought too strenuous for them in times of peace. In any case, it was the end of harvest time and I was much busier than I liked trying to get all the crops in with far too few men and far too many worries. I thought the immortal coming was Ramirez until I paid enough attention to realize that it was definitely a man, but equally definitely not strong enough to be my brother." 

She paused thoughtfully, then said, "He made me nervous from the very beginning. Looking back at it, I think it was his eyes. Sinan never stopped watching everything around him, but he carried himself with an air that said he knew your deepest, darkest secrets, each and every vulnerable spot in your armor -- and that one day, when you were no longer useful to him, or threatened him, or maybe if he were simply bored, he would put a dagger through one of those weak points and study how long it took you to die. I showed him as little of the estates as was polite, let him stay one night in the house because I couldn't get out of it, and personally escorted him off the lands the next morning with eight of my men as guards. 

"It wasn't enough." She paused and took a last swig of her beer. Duncan rubbed one hand up and down her ankle, either to let her know he was still listening or for comfort. With the Highlander, it could be both, for that matter. Still in that achingly quiet, detached voice, Aidan continued her story. 

"A week or so later, while I was riding out to the vineyards to see what could be done about a problem with the casks, I felt a sharp pain in my side. When I looked down, I saw a clothyard shaft standing out from under my ribs. Odd what we remember.... The first thought through my mind was that the bodice of my shirt was new, the embroidery finished only two nights before. I was furious that it was going to be blood-stained." 

Methos shook his head at the incongruous thought, but he could remember other, similar trivialities running through his own mind at such times and kept his silence. 

"The second shaft hit just below my hand where I was holding the first arrow; the third chipped a rib going in and went through my lung, hitting the sternum from the inside." Duncan frowned at the precise, emotionless detail, but held silent. There were wounds he remembered in that kind of detail himself -- a drawback of immortal memories. 

"I remember lying on the ground where I'd fallen off my horse, dying, almost unable to move, and feeling another immortal coming. I had nightmares about that for years," she commented lightly. "Trying to sit up tore something loose inside and I died before I ever saw who had shot me. I never expected to revive from it." 

"Didn't you have guards, Edana?" Methos frowned as he asked the question; that had been an unsettled period in Spain from what he remembered. 

"Most of the fighting men were at the battles, Magister. I had on a leather hauberk over a padded vest, and I was better with a sword than the fighters we had. Ramirez and I had always ridden alone, or with one or two men at most. We simply couldn't spare the manpower to guard people who didn't need it. I should have worn chainmail, but I thought leather would be enough." Aidan smiled wryly at Duncan. "Do you remember you once asked me if I ever forgot to take a sword with me? It was armor you should have been asking about, _muirnin_." 

"I remember," the Scot said quietly. "Would you rather stop?" 

"No. I'll tell you," she answered softly. "Better to be done with this. You two may want to sleep here tonight, though. I'll be restless company, I fear." 

Methos tightened his arms around her. "If you want a bed to yourself, Edana, that's fine. But I certainly can't complain if a nightmare of yours wakes us up." 

"It wasn't that he did anything to me that I hadn't endured before," she said, evading the topic of where she was sleeping. "But something about his eyes, the way he would watch for what little reaction I couldn't control.... No matter how bad the pain, no matter what he did to my flesh with blade, or torch, or his own flesh -- he was always studying me. I fell into death with him studying me and those inhuman eyes were the first thing I saw each time I revived." 

Her voice never changed from that abstracted, considering tone, but her face grew steadily more pale and her hands rubbed in between the bones of her forearms as if her arms ached. Duncan and Methos exchanged glances over her head, both of them disturbed by her behavior. The Scot shook his head very slightly at Methos when he moved to catch her hands; he knew full well why she was doing it. 

Eyes still closed, unaware of their reactions, Aidan continued to tell the story Methos had requested. "Sinan wanted to see my reactions, be they screams or gasps, a convulsing muscle or shuddering skin. Something, anything, so long as it told him that he was the center of my universe for that moment. I couldn't control anything else, but I could control myself, so I did. Everything Lucius had ever made me learn turned out to be barely enough," she mused. "He was... inventive. A fine eye for detail. It's no surprise he was so good as an assassin." 

Methos said calmly, "Most torturers get too involved in their work. Don't make that mistake from your side either, Edana." Outwardly his voice and face gave nothing away, but his mind vacillated between too-vivid memories of occasions when such abuse being inflicted on him and times when Death of the Horsemen had been the one meting it out. Loathing, rage, and disgust filled him, along with memories of Caspian's knife on and in his flesh, of Kronos turning prisoners over to Methos because Caspian tended to play with them and didn't always get needed information before they died. 

The notion that that putrid little man had inflicted such pains and indignities on Edana for nothing more than his own twisted pleasure made Methos wish he'd challenged instead of Duncan. The Highlander had taken longer killing Sinan than he usually did, almost playing with him, but it still hadn't been long or painful enough. _Oh, Gods_ , Methos suddenly realized, _the link is wide open...._

Duncan caught his eyes and sent a wave of reassurance and love to him. With his free arm, the one not wrapped around Aidan, the Highlander reached for Methos and twined his fingers through his lover's. Part of the younger man's mind shuddered under the images in the older man's thoughts, though, and the smoothness with which they meshed with the still fading memories from Sinan. He had wondered, more than once, whether Cassandra had been the only immortal slave in the Horsemen's camp but he'd never wanted to ask. 

When the link had first surged between the two of them in Paris a few months ago, Methos had accidentally let Duncan see a time when Kronos had ordered Caspian to 'punish' him for not being sufficiently ruthless. When he realized Duncan was actually seeing the memories, not just the emotions associated with them, Methos had somehow cut it off. But the Highlander didn't think Caspian had stopped with torture alone. Then, too, he hadn't wanted to ask. 

How could he ask someone, 'Were you raped? Is there anything I can do?'' Especially when he was all too aware that the person in question did understand full well how rape felt, from the victim's point of view as well as the rapist's? The only thing Duncan knew to do was to wait, and listen if asked, and try to accept that Methos would talk if and when he wanted to. 

Methos heard some of the thoughts and reactions running through his lover's mind and shook his head in pleased surprise. The Highlander was growing up, learning to accept the different events and actions that lay in his lovers' pasts. Gratitude for that acceptance shone in Methos' gold-green eyes as they met Duncan's loving gaze. 

Aidan shivered slightly against Duncan's shoulder, feeling nothing of their silent conversation. Warm leather lay against her side, warm male bodies wrapped around her. Methos' strong hands had started rubbing at her feet, easing some of her tension as he triggered pressure points. She drew a long breath then slowly released it and continued her tale. 

"Eventually, Sinan decided there was nothing more that I would yield. Also I was staying alive for shorter and shorter intervals between deaths which infuriated him. He told me that the whole point had been to draw Ramirez after him, that he was sure my lover would find me sooner or later. The man did like to gloat," Aidan sighed. "Do you have any idea how much I have hated being considered nothing more than a detachable accessory for some immortal who happens to be equipped with a tassel?" 

Duncan couldn't help it; he tried valiantly to restrain his laughter, but his body was shaking under her. Methos did chortle, one hand wrapped around Aidan's foot where he'd been rubbing. She finally giggled herself, then fell into laughter, head turned into Duncan's chest. After a minute, both men realized that her shoulders were shaking with tears, not laughter. 

Methos moved Aidan's feet from his lap to the floor and wrapped himself around her from the other side. He knew even better than Duncan how rarely she cried; her detachment must have covered more stress and terror than he'd realized. Feeling the soundless, convulsive sobs under his arm he remembered that she had always been one to weep silently, the result of too many years as the only child living with three adults who weren't used to raising children of their own. The priests had done their best with Edana and it had been a good job, but she was hideously self-sufficient at times. Not a bad trait in an immortal usually, but it could be taken to extremes... and she sometimes did. 

A thought flashed across his mind, and Methos found himself wondering how much of the stress was due to the fact that for three hundred years Aidan had believed her safest, most trusted confidantes to be dead. Ramirez, Rihana, himself: all had vanished or died within the course of a century. How much had she pent up over the years, unwilling to burden Darius or Adrianna with it because they were cloistered and she was in the Game? 

Slowly, under the crooning sound of Duncan's loving, almost-nonsensical words and the firm, gentle touches from both of them, Aidan's sobs eased off. Duncan gently pressed her into Methos' arms and went to get a cold washcloth for her swollen eyes and some kleenex for her stuffed-up nose. 

She lay silent against the older man, who continued to stroke her hair lovingly. Even after she had gotten cleaned up, though, no words emerged for a long time. Duncan turned on the stereo, letting soft jazz ease the silences of the room as their presence soothed his own troubled mind. He sat there for a while, rubbing gently at her forearms, before asking softly, "So how did Ramirez get you off that wall? A file? Or hammer and chisel?" 

To Methos' surprise, Aidan chuckled softly where she lay against his chest. "Hammer and chisel. Did I tell you that, or did you pull it out of his quickening?" She sounded much calmer. 

"You told me some of it." Strong, dark hands rubbed at her wrists and hands to start easing the phantom pain. 

"Ah. Before you have to ask, Magister, Sinan left me in a bricked off room to die of suffocation until Ramirez found me. He had chained me to the wall -- literally. He opened the final link on each chain and threaded them between the bones on my forearms, then closed them off again." She dragged in a deep breath and let it out on a shuddering exhalation as Duncan found a particularly tense spot on her right arm. 

Methos only said, "Are you all right now?" She was already forcing the memories down, coping with them. There was no point in stirring them up further; Sinan was definitely dead. But oh, it would have been good to drag the bastard's death out a bit further.... 

"Other than feeling restless? Yes. Are you?" She opened her eyes and looked up to see him studying her thoughtfully. 

"Fine, Edana, now that you two are calming down. Did you want to call Lucius?" Methos offered quietly, knowing that her relationship with the master vampire was extremely complex even by immortal standards. For some reason, it seemed the correct thing to suggest, though. _Perhaps because he's linked so intimately in her mind with enduring pain?_

She thought about that for a little while, then asked, "Would you two like to go dancing afterwards? I really need to move." 

Duncan shook his head. "After a quickening like that, I need an evening to meditate and then curl up with a good book, but don't let me stop you two, Aidan. Do you want to pick me up when you're ready to go on to bed, or shall I meet you two over at your house?" 

Methos pushed Aidan towards the phone. "He and I will sort this out. Go call LaCroix, then we'll go dance. That new place down by the university?" 

She nodded at that offer and went to the phone in the kitchen, dialing the Toronto number without thinking about it. 

"The Raven. What pleasure can we offer you?" 

"Miklos? It's the Sunchild. Is LaCroix off the air?" She kept her voice controlled, aware that vampire politics were now involved. 

"Sunchild, he's off the air, but I don't see him right now. Can I take a message?" She paused, trying to decide what to say, then heard Miklos continue, "Ah, never mind, he just came to the bar. Here you are." 

"Aidan, my dear, how good of you to call. How are you?" 

Aidan laughed at that, knowing LaCroix would hear the pain in it but unable to stop. "I have definitely been better, Lucien, but I've been worse as well. In truth, old friend, I think that I called to tell you thank you." 

"Ah? A moment while I move to a less public phone, then." Before she could answer yes or no he had handed the phone to the bartender. Less than thirty seconds later, she heard him say, "You many hang up now, Miklos. So, Phaedra, what's happened that you owe me thanks?" 

"All the years that you taught me to endure pain allowed me to frustrate an enemy of mine centuries ago and again tonight. So... thank you, Lucius." Gratitude, resignation, and still-fading pain shaded her voice, as did lingering fear and a tinge of amusement. From long habit, she reverted to his original name instead of his current identity as Lucien LaCroix. 

"Did they? I am gratified. Who was he? With your two _erastes_ there, I am assuming that he's dead." LaCroix relaxed into his chair, listening over the headset in his broadcast booth for privacy and for nuance as well. With the stereo effect, he heard all the tones and emotions in her voice. For Aidan to be allowing him such information was a pleasant surprise, but the mixture of emotions told him the evening's experience had been truly unpleasant. 

"Duncan took his head," she answered quietly. "He was an assassin who had... hurt me, very badly several centuries ago. He grew rather frustrated when I wasn't sufficiently responsive to his talents." 

Remembering her uncanny stillness under pain, impressive by even his standards, LaCroix chuckled evilly. He could just imagine how thoroughly she had maddened someone wanting to draw reactions from her. "I imagine he did, my dear. So are you well now?" 

"I'm fine, Lucius, in fact we're going dancing in a little while. How is everything in Toronto?" They exchanged pleasantries for a while, discussing students and mutual friends. LaCroix was instructing a young pre-immortal in sword work, a woman named Tracy Vetter. Two thousand years practice with a gladius made him a formidable coach indeed. The vampire and former Roman general, meanwhile, was very interested in how her aptly named student was coming along. 

After several minutes of gossip, though, LaCroix told her, "I am afraid, my dear, that I have other obligations this night. I will look forward to seeing you again. And I am glad that your... lessons are still of use to you. Even if your lovers have not yet forgiven me for them." 

Aidan's shrug carried over into her voice. "You and I have an odd relationship even by the standards of our kinds, Lucius. Duncan and Adam dislike seeing me hurt, that's all. For that matter, you've no tolerance for those who hurt Nick or Tracy. But I'll call another time, old friend. And if I come through Toronto, I will visit." 

"I look forward to it, and I shall give your greetings to Nicholas and Theresa. Be so kind as to extend mine to Adam and Duncan." He purred the last, certain that she would do so from ingrained courtesy and that it would annoy her two lovers immensely that she had called him after such an encounter. 

"I will. Strength to you, LaCroix." 

"And to you, my dear." 

Aidan turned around after hanging up the phone, to see Methos waiting with her coat. Duncan was standing there as well, but he shook his head at her surprised look of inquiry. "No, I didn't change my mind. I'll see you two when you come in," the Highlander said. "I'm going to go over and curl up in front of your fireplace, Aidan, and watch the flames dance." 

Aidan chuckled quietly. "When we get tired of imitating the flames, we'll come home. Don't wait up if you get tired, Dhonnchaidh. We've all had a long day. Oh, by the way, LaCroix said to tell you two hello." 

Duncan rolled his eyes in disgust, but Methos chuckled. "He would, wouldn't he? How is Tracy doing? And Nick and Vachon?" 

They shut down the lights and locked up the loft apartment as Aidan told them about the latest cases Tracy and Nick were working on. When they got downstairs, she looked at the alley where Sinan had died and glanced at Duncan. He met her gaze soberly and said softly, "It's done. I'm just sorry he didn't die a thousand years ago, love." 

"So am I, Dhonnchaidh." She hugged him hard and said, "We'll be in after a while. _Muirnin_.... Thank you." 

One strong hand cupped her cheek and she smiled at the love and reassurance shining out of dark brown eyes. The Highlander leaned in and kissed her, then kissed Methos as well. "You're welcome. Go dance, you two. I'll be there when you get tired." 

Methos smiled at that. "You always are, MacLeod. And one of these days, you'll let us do the same for you." 

Duncan didn't have to consider the quickening he'd taken, or the memories he'd felt from Methos and what they'd do to his sleep. He simply answered, "Sooner than you might think," and walked them downstairs to the cars.  


_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~_

A different version of some of the events of this story can be found in [A Deadly Virtue](http://mediafans.org/futures2/10deadly.html), originally published in [Futures Without End 2](http://mediafans.org/futures2/welcome.html). 

**Author's Note:**

> **_Notes, Comments, & Commentary:_ **
> 
> 1\. Sinan ibn Sulman is, in fact, a historical character with whom I have taken very few liberties. (Well, other than making him an immortal and letting him be three hundred years old during his actual lifetime.) He was the head of the Assassins during Salah-al Din's campaign against the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and the anecdote about his attack on Saladin is one I ran into while studying the Crusades. I'm not sure any period surpasses the Crusades in treachery, intrigue, shifting sides, and unexpected nobility. And some of the sources on it are surprisingly good. Steven Runciman's three volume _A History of the Crusades_ is, to my mind, the definitive work, although Jonathan Riley-Smith's _Atlas of the Crusades_ is an extremely helpful resource as well. 
> 
> 2\. Aidan first mentioned Sinan in "[Absent Companions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68099)", and boy, was that a while back! 
> 
> 3\. The fight with Ned White was in "[First Harvests](http://archiveofourown.org/works/70768)"; Duncan's right, Aidan did take his fight. Paybacks are a bitch, too.... 
> 
> 4\. Marc Scipio, who looks like he's half-black, half-Italian, was raised by an second-generation Italian family in Philadelphia. Trust us -- he's Italian. He showed up in "Poaching." 
> 
> 5\. Aidan trapped Duncan in his own clothes in "First Harvests". (It seemed like a good idea at the time?) 
> 
> 6\. Erin Shea is a Watcher Researcher who's dating Joe when they're in the same city, and is about to start teaching languages and Ancient History at the University of Seacouver. She appeared in "Prelude to the Storm." 
> 
> 7\. Marc spent two years in the wilds of the Canadian Cascades, effectively the prisoner of the immortal who was 'teaching' him. 
> 
> 8\. Richelieu, Louis XVI's Prime Minister as well as a cardinal, was one of the strongest men of any period of time. He controlled France for several years through a combination of ruthlessness, skill, Machiavellian plotting, and sheer bloody efficiency. And while he may have been a bastard, he ruled France extremely well. 
> 
> 9\. 'Midden' -- a castle's septic field, effectively. 
> 
> 10\. Spanish history, especially around and during the Moorish invasions, is also fascinating. Names and dates are from Bernard Grun's _Timetables of History_. 
> 
> 11\. Duncan 'saw' Methos' interaction with Caspian in "Prelude to the Storm." 
> 
> 12\. Lucien LaCroix of _Forever Knight_ shows up in various stories, most notably "[Force of Habit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/637859)", "Shadow Plays", and "Nosferateu". His relationship with Aidan definitely falls under the heading of 'intricate.' The other characters mentioned (Miklos, Nick Knight, Tracy Vetter, and Javier Vachon) are also from Forever Knight, and I have no rights to any of them and certainly make no profit. 
> 
> 13\. _Muirnin_ \-- Irish for beloved. Luaidhe -- _Scottish_ (f) for beloved. _Erastes_ \-- Greek for lovers. _Magister_ \-- Latin for teacher. 


End file.
